


The Best of the Season

by equestrianstatue



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 10:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raffles goes out of town for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of the Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocketbookangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/gifts).



It was the twenty-third of December when I called upon Raffles to wish him the best of the season. It was his last day in town: he was to spend Christmas with people of his in the eastern counties, though he had neglected to provide me with further details on the matter, aside from his departure on the 5.25 from Liverpool Street that afternoon.

My heart sat a little heavy in my chest, despite the gaily-decorated Albany staircase, the tasteful gilt-green wreath hanging from Raffles's door, and the smell of spiced wine when he flung the door open to greet me. I would miss his company, even for so short a time as a week.

I had spent my last December in a whirlwind of drink, card tables, loose company and looser morals. Christmas Day itself was somewhat lost in that fog. In the penniless misery of the weeks that followed, I had made a vow that, should I be lucky enough to eke out my life for twelve months more, I would spend my next Christmas undertaking some dedicated mission to the poor and needy in penance. A few months later, in the giddiness of our first adventures, I had entertained the thought that Raffles and I might spend the day together. But both of these plans I revised accordingly as December drew nearer. Raffles, of course, had plenty of business aside from myself; and somewhat regretting the rash promise I had made in my penury, I made a donation to the Foundlings' Hospital and hoped that would do for good will.

My own Christmas, then, was to be quiet affair. I would spend the day at my club, among venerable old gentlemen exempt from familial duties. The prospect had seemed a little glum at first, but as the day approached, I was beginning to rather anticipate my first-class turkey luncheon and half-bottle of champagne.

"Perfectly timed!" Raffles cried, as I stepped across the threshold. "I hoped to see you before I left."

"It seems I almost missed you," I replied. A valise and carpet-bag were packed and ready by the door. 

"No, I've half an hour yet; but you are in good time for some mulled wine." Raffles began to ladle it from a bowl as he spoke. "I thought perhaps I'd donate it to the porter, but I'm sure I can charge you to finish the remainder."

"Well," I said, and raised the glass he handed to me. "Cheers to that, Raffles; and to you."

Raffles raised his own glass, and we drank. He lit us both a Sullivan, and taking it from his fingers, I settled into the chair I had begun to think of as mine. I felt as much at home there, in those days, as I did in my own flat. Perhaps more so. In this respect it was certainly a departure from Raffles's study at school, which I had never visited without feeling out of place, despite the generosity he had always shown me in the offer of a chair and a cup of tea. I knew myself then to be a very foolish boy in the presence and environs of a young man. Now, I believed, we were on a more even footing.

I was not the only fag Raffles treated kindly. He was well known as a good billet, as renowned for his uncommon friendliness as for his cricket. It was generally agreed among the younger boys that his eccentricities were far outweighed by his propensity to reward good work well done with hot crumpets and butter. And although a few caught the sharp edge of his tongue, I never knew Raffles to beat a boy in all my time at school.

"You look very deep in thought," Raffles said to me now.

"I was thinking how much we have changed."

"Really?" he said, with an arch of an eyebrow. "I was thinking how much you hadn't."

Raffles's conduct in those days had seemed quite explicable, and his especial regard for me was explained by the secrets I had kept for him and the nights I had stayed watch in his service. It was his regard for me now that I questioned. Yes, I had proven myself a loyal and sturdy companion; yes, he could rely on me now as he had done of old. But he, the sporting legend, the man about town, seemed content to spend as much time with me as I could hope for with him. It was the necessity of our damnable partnership, of course. But had I been in Raffles's position, I rather fancied that I would make a point of picking out a few other friends – innocent friends – to spend my days with, and becoming known as their companions. To borrow a phrase, we were thick as thieves. But I was surprised not so much by Raffles's imprudence as by my company being enough to satisfy him. 

For Raffles's feelings towards me, I knew, must be as they were ten years ago. I allowed that he was pleased and impressed by my part in our operations; even that he must find me amusing and entertaining enough to serve as his primary source of company. But Raffles never beat the boys at school, and neither did he touch them. It would have been known, had it been the case, even if not spoken of outright. When I grew older, and met him anew, I expected something of my infatuated hero-worship to return, and indeed it did. I had not expected opposite if not quite equal attention to be returned to me from him.

I had struggled for many months to interpret this. I had not thought it inconceivable, drunk on the thrill of our first misdemeanour, that Raffles might propose we move from one sphere of criminal activity to another entirely. But his conduct remained as respectable as ever, or as respectable as a cracksman's can be. The intimacy of our relationship remained always within the bounds of propriety. And yet Raffles liked me: he liked me more than I could otherwise explain.

Around and around went this puzzle in my head, and I was no closer to solving it than I had been in mid-March.

"A Christmas at the club is a fine thing," Raffles was saying now. "I did it myself, a year or two back. You shall have a grand day of it, Bunny; better than my visit to the provinces, I assure you."

"Yes. I think it should be rather good fun."

"No ghastly carol singing, for one thing. No shame in leaving your Brussels sprouts, for another."

"I rather like Brussels sprouts." 

"You do bring your punishments upon yourself."

The thought of Raffles press-ganged into carols around a drawing-room piano made me smile. I thought of the last service at chapel before the holidays, and of the train home the next morning, the older boys smoking and playing cards, the younger ones bellowing profane rewritten hymns at one another. 

Raffles, unaware that I was lost in thought, seemed to think me unusually taciturn, and perhaps disappointed to be left alone in London. While he was not altogether wrong, I had not meant to be rude; nevertheless, he refilled my glass, and offered me another cigarette.

I took my leave of him a little earlier than necessary, hoping that Raffles would read my casual departure as a sign that I was not jealous. Raffles rose when I did, and walked me even the short distance to his door. As I opened it and turned to say my final goodbye, his eyes seemed to glitter in the lamplight, and his smile was one that I imagined he reserved for me, indulgent but genuine.

Perhaps it was the thought of being alone for the next week that stirred me on; or perhaps it was the mulled wine, which had been somewhat stronger than Raffles's usual taste. Either way, as Raffles clapped a hand to my shoulder in salutation, I found myself mirroring the gesture, holding onto both of his arms in my hands. Then, before I had a chance to change my mind, I leaned in to press my lips briefly but firmly to his.

It was the most chaste of encounters, but I was exposed now, if ever I had been concealed. Raffles might be disappointed in my behaviour, might be repulsed, or, just conceivably, might reciprocate. But as I pulled backwards to look at him, I felt some relief at having placed my cards upon the table.

I was, however, quite unprepared for what Raffles did next. After a short pause, he laughed at me aloud.

I felt my face heat with embarrassment. In all my imaginings, I had never considered that Raffles could react in this way: to treat my deepest confession as something humorous. I burned with shame, but also, I realised, with a growing anger.

"Please," I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. "You are welcome to display your disgust or horror, if you so choose. But not to take me seriously at all – I must ask you not to humiliate me in this way."

But the smile on Raffles's lips stayed put. Wildly, I began to wonder if the whole friendship had been a trick, if he had been baiting me all these months; if my desperate kiss was the culmination of an experiment he had been amused to conduct. It did not seem impossible. But as I tried to step back from him, Raffles grasped my arms as I had his a few moments before, and held me fast.

"My dear Bunny," he said, and his voice was grave, even if that infernal twinkle in his eye would not falter. "My reaction was one of surprise only. I promise that I always take you seriously. Please accept my apology."

"Very well," I stammered, held helpless in the full power of his attention; and I was still flushed to the roots of my hair when Raffles leaned forward to kiss me. The press of his mouth against mine was momentary, but I felt it would leave an indelible mark upon me; our bodies barely touched, but my heart was pounding as if I had run a mile.

I stepped back from him then, as much as I wished to do the opposite. I was shocked at myself, and at Raffles, despite my long months of consideration. "I will see you in the New Year," I said, hoping I did not sound too breathless, and disappeared down the staircase before I could hear his reply. 

*

My Christmas, as Raffles and I had both predicted, was indeed quite pleasant. Aside from the occasional brief exchanges of pleasantries between myself and fellow club members, I was left alone to my thoughts. It was only a shame that my thoughts tended to veer towards the turbulent.

I replayed again and again the kiss I had flung at Raffles, and the return he had made to me. Was there, I thought, any chance at all that he had simply acted out of politeness? I stared absent-mindedly over the top of my newspaper, at the back of the head of the man in the nearest chair. In the past, I had resorted to chewing over a number of issues of social etiquette with others at the club. In this case, unfortunately, it would not be quite the thing.

Much of Boxing Day was spent in the very same room. I became a little more resolved. It did seem quite incontrovertible now that Raffles's interest in me was not purely platonic, although why he should not have acted on this earlier was a mystery. My dedication to him, I thought, could quite easily be understood for what it was. If Raffles was looking for signs of openness from me, I had given him plenty.

I sat with my newspaper, thinking about Raffles knelt at the lock at Danby the jeweller's, boring holes around it; the sharp gleam of his teeth as he looked up and smiled at me, the determination in his eyes not overshadowing the hint of mischief that never left them. Did he find me attractive, even then? How was it possible that Raffles – _Raffles_ – could want something and not simply take it?

I sighed and looked again at the newspaper in front of me. There had been a pleasure-boating accident on the Thames on Christmas Day, although no serious injuries had occurred. A Staffordshire farmer had reared a grotesquely large turkey which he claimed to be the largest in the world, and which appeared in an illustration. A Cambridgeshire bank had been broken into in the early hours of Christmas morning. I paused on this article, scanning it again with renewed attention. Here was a story to interest Raffles. The money and bullion had been let alone; it was only the vault which had been raided, and a small number of particular possessions kept there had been taken, mostly jewellery and silverware.

On the third reading, a familiar combination of cold shock and hot exhilaration began to burn me. It could, of course, be a coincidence: goodness knows Raffles was not the only safe-breaker in the country. But the style of the robbery was his, and I had never quite ascertained exactly where his train was taking him. Cambridgeshire, perhaps?

I cursed myself for not insisting he left a forwarding address. Now I must spend the next days fretting not only about my highly unusual leave-taking, but also whether Raffles had slipped out of his seasonal idyll to crack a crib without me.

I had planned to stay at the club throughout the afternoon, but I rather needed some air. I took a slow walk back to Mount Street, but found that the cold did little to calm my racing thoughts. If the bank had been Raffles's work, was it done on impulse, or planned – and if so, for how long?

I hardly knew which of the two matters at hand I ought to put to Raffles first. At my flat, I thought, I would sit down and write a letter, take it to Raffles's own club, and see if they had an address for him. But no, of course not: how could I put any of this in a letter? It was hardly prudent to send out into the world a piece of paper detailing my suspicions of the criminal activities Raffles may already have committed, and may, God willing, consider committing in the future.

The issue was somewhat negated by the sight that greeted me as I entered my flat. In my sitting room, in my armchair, sat none other than AJ Raffles himself. His perennial cigarette in his hand, he looked up as I entered with the pleasant surprise of one welcoming an unexpected visitor to their own apartment. I almost expected him to bid me make myself at home.

But he waited for me to speak first, his small smile almost hidden. I confess it took me a moment to order my thoughts, already in some disarray; and, after all, I was spared the dilemma of which of my two issues should be addressed first.

"How did you get in?" I cried, instead.

At this, again, he threw his head back and laughed. This time, recognising the absurdity of the situation, so did I.

"My dear Bunny," he said, "I must admit that I expected rather more advanced security measures."

"Why?" I asked him. I felt giddy with the onslaught of surprises; the laughter had gone to my head. "Who else would break in here but you?"

I sat down on the sofa. It hardly seemed to matter what I asked him now.

"Did you have a pleasant Christmas?" he asked.

"Very. Did you?"

"Indeed."

"And yet you have not stayed in Cambridgeshire."

"Cambridgeshire?" he asked me, his eyes trained on mine, but I did not look away. "And what makes you think I was there?"

"Come now. There's no point in pretending. I read about the bank today." I felt quite proud: doubtless Raffles had hoped to surprise me with this himself. "Broken into with no trace of entry, and only particular jewels and heirlooms taken? Don't tell me another cracksman with your _modus operandi_ just happened to be staying nearby – or was it a professor, do you think?"

"You wound me," said Raffles, but the pleasure in his expression said otherwise. "It was a gentleman's work."

"Your people, I suppose, live in the area? Was it a midnight stroll gone awry?"

"You wound me further."

"Tell me, then."

"You know I must have my secrets, Bunny."

"But why?" I had asked this question a thousand times, and would ask it a thousand more. As always, the jocularity in my tone was underscored by a real hurt.

"What am I to surprise you with otherwise?"

"But I don't wish to be surprised. I want to be in on it, Raffles, that's why I'm here; that's why I'm always here. You know I've shown myself capable and willing. I want to know your plans, and I want to know what you _want_ , Raffles. I think that you want me to help you, and indeed that is what you tell me, but then you show yourself quite happy to take on a job alone. Do you want me by your side? Do you – " here I faltered. When Raffles looked at me this way, I felt that he could see into my soul. Perhaps I did not even need to speak, but I pressed on for myself if not for him. "Do you want me, Raffles?"

He took a long drag on his Sullivan, his eyes never leaving my face. "Yes," he said.

"Then I am here," I said, simply. I knew not what else to tell him.

"I know." That clear blue gaze of his was as sharp as ever, but I thought I detected a softening somewhere in his eyes. "I do know that, Bunny."

"Then why did you leave me to do what I did? How could you let me spend those weeks, those months, those evenings with you – if you knew what a turmoil I was in? Why wouldn't you _do_ something?"

Raffles cleared his throat. For a moment, I was sure he would tell me again that he must have his secrets, and expect that to be an end to it; I felt my blood rise against him in frustration. But he paused before speaking, and seemed to be considering his next words with unusual care.

"You were thirteen when I met you, Bunny."

"Yes." I waited for him to go on. When he did not, I said, "But I am not thirteen now. You don't treat me like a child. I don't understand what you mean."

"I know you are not a child."

The colour was rising in my face. My ears, I feared, were growing hot. "You must know I am not an innocent."

Raffles's eyebrows quirked. I had surprised him. "Yes, I know that too. But you are not so very long out of school – "

"Be damned with the school!" I cried. "That's not what I am talking about. And I left six years ago."

"So long?"

"You know that too."

This conversation was not what I had expected: Raffles, stuck somehow within the bounds of propriety and responsibility? Surely not. I thought again: it must be something more personal to him.

"You will not be my corrupter, Raffles, or at least no further than you have been," I told him. With a candour that surprised me, I added, "Though I rather thought you would have liked to be so."

Raffles raised his eyebrows a little further. But he said, "You mistake me. I never wished to be your corrupter."

This time, I laughed at him. "My mistake could be forgiven, I'm sure."

"No," he went on, but not in response to me. "No, Bunny. I preferred simply to think that I could be, should I so choose."

That, I thought, sounded more like the man I had come to know.

"But that's all one," he said. "Here we are, and we must work with what we have. So, Bunny: will you have me?"

My heart leapt into my throat. He need not ask, and I was sure he knew that, too. "Of course."

He rose from my armchair, and came to me on the sofa. There was something of the excitement in him that preceded a house-break in the early hours; that softness was all gone, and only his needle-sharp wits and wicked smile remained. He touched my shoulder, but even as I leaned towards him, I remembered that my other questions remained unanswered.

"Wait, Raffles. You still have not explained yourself. Why the bank? Was it always planned? Why did you tell me you would be away for the rest of the month?" I felt my voice catching, strangling on how much he still kept from me. "Were you ever really to stay with anybody? You never speak of your family."

Raffles closed his eyes momentarily. He sighed, and said, "Yes, I always planned to break that bank; but in the quiet days after Christmas, and to stay unobtrusively with my people, who are real enough. I thought to return in January with some small tokens to help us through the winter. You need never have known." He moved away from me a little, and I felt a spark of discontentment, but he was only reaching for something in an inside pocket. "But after your display, I changed my mind. I brought the job forward. And I took special care to pinch this."

He had produced a heavy lighter of solid silver, worked over on one side with an intricate design of leaves and branches. It was almost the size of my palm when he placed it into my hand.

"To go with the case," he explained. "They are not quite a set: but I think it will do."

"Indeed," I said. I was overwhelmed with a feeling that was not quite gratitude, but I could mistake it for such. It was what I had felt in the wake of that first robbery, when I had been horribly tricked, and yet I owed Raffles my life.

Literature had taught me that love had many guises, and that the uncomplicated happiness of two people was not its only presentation. I had never been sure to what degree this was true in life, but now, as I pressed my lips to Raffles's once again in thanks, I thought that perhaps no love was uncomplicated. Whether Raffles loved me I would not ask, but he wanted me, and I him: he whispered, "Merry Christmas," into the skin at the base of my neck, and I was not sure if it mattered either way.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you can reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/106833347552/the-best-of-the-season-equestrianstatue)!


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